


The Doctor and the Impatient

by shinychimera, Yeomanrand



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: 1000-5000 Words, Alcohol, Blow Job, Bondage, Denial, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-15
Updated: 2009-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-07 07:39:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinychimera/pseuds/shinychimera, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/pseuds/Yeomanrand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk comes to McCoy's quarters, eager to play.  But McCoy has other duties that come first, and making pushy, wheedling Kirk wait turns out to be an unexpected pleasure.</p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <i>Jim exhales harshly, and his rebellion suddenly collapses, as though a red alert has just been called off. His chin settles down on his chest and he just lets himself hang there. He's never been more beautiful, desperate and disheveled, stretched out taut and waiting.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doctor and the Impatient

**Author's Note:**

> **Authors:** [](http://yeomanrand.livejournal.com/profile)[**yeomanrand**](http://yeomanrand.livejournal.com/) and [](http://shinychimera.livejournal.com/profile)[**shinychimera**](http://shinychimera.livejournal.com/)  
> **Notes:** Written for two prompts: "Kirk is a pushy bottom, shamelessly begging to be fucked" and "Bones brings Kirk down a notch by getting him to say please."  
> **Warnings:** Slightly unsafe bondage, sex, Romulan ale.  
> **Disclaimers:** We do not own any of these characters.
> 
> Originally [posted](http://community.livejournal.com/kirk_mccoy/107496.html) to [](http://community.livejournal.com/kirk_mccoy/profile)[**kirk_mccoy**](http://community.livejournal.com/kirk_mccoy/)

There's only one person on board the _Enterprise_ who can -- or would -- enter McCoy's quarters without asking, so when the door _shoosh_es open he knows perfectly well who's there. But he's just received the immunization data from Starfleet that they're going to need tomorrow, and there's a stack of padds from the B and C shifts to consolidate into one report for the officer's briefing in the morning, and that's not to mention the journals he ought to be catching up on.

He glances up from his desk. Jim is walking in with his best charming smile, one hand hidden behind his back. He's got his gold command shirt off, and looks ridiculously trim and healthy in his black undershirt. McCoy rubs at his forehead and leans back in his chair, frowning.

"Yes, Captain? Something I can do for you?" He's got his best "well bless your heart" voice on, though he knows it won't matter. Sometimes, Jim is completely tone-deaf.

"None of that 'Captain' stuff now, Bones -- it's after hours."

McCoy sighs heavily. "For you, maybe. Some of us have to prepare for meetings, so that we can adequately keep the _captain_ up-to-date regarding matters aboard his ship."

Jim crosses the room and leans one forearm high against the decorative titanium grill that divides McCoy's work area from his bed. "I hate briefings. I much prefer ... _de_-briefings." He's got that predatory twinkle in his eye, and he's still got something hidden behind his back. Not going to be easy to ignore tonight.

"Ha, ha." But McCoy turns his attention fully away from the piled information, stretching his legs out in front of him under the desk. "I'd ask what's on your mind, but you've certainly made _that_ clear enough."

"Come play with me, Bones. Work can wait."

The work certainly cannot wait, no matter what Jim says. And yet ... the kid's bright entreaty is hard to resist. He folds his hands behind his head, and Jim's grin broadens. Pleased, sure he's getting what he wants. Sure that McCoy's going to ask him what he's hiding, and that the evening is going to go according to his plan.

McCoy lets his shoulders drop a bit before he gets out of the chair and comes over to Jim.

"You're a real pain in the ass, did you know that?" he growls, catching Jim's cheek in his hand and leaning in to kiss him roughly before he has a chance to answer. He strokes his other hand down the arm Jim's been keeping behind his back, lips and teeth seeking out the sensitive point at the corner of his jaw. His fingers twine around Jim's where they grip the neck of an angular bottle; the glass has picked up some of his heat. McCoy takes it easily from fingers lax with pleasure and sets it on the thigh-high cabinet behind him, at the same time retrieving the tough plastic cord that had bound the stack of padds when they were delivered.

With his "surprise" out of the way, Jim's hand comes up to tangle in McCoy's hair; in return McCoy slides his hand under Jim's shirt, across the warm skin of his stomach, pressing them both back until Jim's spine is flat against the edge of the divider. McCoy brings his hands down to grip Jim's shirt, tugging the hem free of his pants, fingertips lightly brushing Jim's sides. Jim accommodatingly raises his arms so McCoy can strip him.

McCoy leans in with a devouring kiss, arms stretched above them both, focused on making Jim forget everything but the hard mouth crushing him backwards, the wet tongue on his, the building heat between their bodies. And then the cord is looped around Jim's wrists, threaded through the filigree of the divider, and tied off.

He scrapes his teeth along Jim's lip as he pulls back, watching Jim tug on his wrists, hard, but both the cord and the titanium are built to last. McCoy plants a softer kiss on the corner of Jim's mouth.

"Bones --!"

"No."

He steps back to his desk and picks up the padd he'd been working on, settling back into his chair and taking several deep, calming breaths.

"Now. I _have_ to get through this damned data from Starfleet so that I know what to immunize the away team for -- an away team that _you_ should not be on, by the way," he shakes the stylus at Jim, "and then I have to finish getting my notes together for the briefing. Shouldn't take more than about, oh, an hour or so."

"You can't be serious." He looks up at the cord, but there's no wiggling out of this one without serious tissue damage. Jim pulls again anyway.

"Don't dislocate anything."

Jim stands still for a moment, still a little breathless from the kiss, frustration and arousal warring on his features. He licks his lips, and shifts tactics. "But Bones ... Bones, I want you." He's trying for seductive, but it comes out kind of petulant instead.

McCoy jots another note with his stylus, head down, but angled so Jim's still in his line of sight. Even with the distraction, he knows it's not going to take an hour to finish.

Jim starts to squirm, slowly.

"Bones ...." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jim's hips swaying. It's difficult not to look up at him, but McCoy knows he's just waiting for eye contact. He can hear Jim's pants scuffing slowly back and forth across the divider.

Then again, maybe he'll be distracted enough that it _will_ take the full hour, if Jim doesn't stop that.

He constructs his list carefully, making sure they've got synthesized vaccines on hand for every possible race Jim might throw into the landing party tomorrow, including half-Vulcan. He checks it three times, because Jim is whispering at him and he is damned sure he is not paying enough attention to what he's doing. He taps out a quick note to Christine Chapel regarding the sera to have available in the morning, sends it to her terminal in Sickbay. He stretches, pulls his own shirt off (hears Jim's breath catch), adjusts himself under the desk and ... picks up another padd.

Jim sighs in frustration. His squirming shifts in key and, after a moment, McCoy realizes that he's trying to figure out how to use his toes to push his boots off.

"I'm thinking about you, Leonard McCoy."

Ah, here comes Plan C. He forces himself to focus on the shift summary.

"I'm imagining you over here, touching me. Tasting my skin, running your hands all over me, my shoulders, my chest. I'm feeling your kiss on my nipples, fingers on my stomach and my sides, tickling me and stroking me and making me crazy with wanting to touch you back. I'm feeling your hands on my ass, squeezing me tight. I'm imagining you down on your knees in front of me, and I'm helpless, I can't even put my hands in your hair ...."

_Damn_, the kid can talk.

"I'm so hard for you, Bones. I want to feel your breath on me. I want you to stroke the inside of my thighs and make my knees collapse. I'm imagining your lips on me, soft, and hot and wet, and your fingernails on my hip bones." Jim's no longer rocking side to side against the divider, now he's rolling his hips forward, tensing and relaxing the long muscles of his thighs, rubbing forward and back against the inside of his pants. He's breathing heavily. "I want to see you looking up at me all tied up here."

"I'll just bet you do," McCoy says, his voice gone low and deep and rough with the edge of desire, but Jim's not going to get what he wants so easily. "I'll let you know when I'm finished."

"Don't you want me? I'm here, I'm ready for you. I want you to put down the padd and fuck me, Bones." This time there's that edge of command in his voice, and he's thrusting against the empty air.

"Somebody needs to learn you some patience, Jim. And I seem to be in the position to do it." He does not take his eyes off the padd, rapidly reading and assimilating and trying to ignore his own erection and the flush he knows has come over his skin.

"Bones. Come on," Jim says harshly.

He glances at the chronograph. "You've got a long wait ahead of you, Jim, might as well relax a little."

"ARRRRGH!" He yanks on the cord again. "Fuck me, now. Fuck me. You know you want to. Just put the goddamn work down, come here, kiss me, strip me, fuck me. Now, goddamnit!"

McCoy sets the padd down on his desk, mouth dry. "Got that out of your system?"

He studies Jim -- panting and straining, hard and desperate, sheened with sweat -- before getting up and closing the distance between them. The eager moan that escapes Jim's lips is a beautiful thing. McCoy leans in for a moment, teasing him with a brush of skin on skin, then pushes him firmly back against the post and reaches up to ease the tension on Jim's abraded wrists. Jim pushes his chin forward insistently, begging for another kiss, but McCoy stays just out of reach.

"Don't pull so hard," he scolds, "I don't want to be rushing you to Sickbay." The bottle on the shelf behind him catches McCoy's eye and, with one hand still pressing on Jim's sternum, he reaches out to pick it up. The liquid inside is shockingly blue, and he knows even before he turns it in his hand what Jim's brought him. McCoy brushes his lips against the young man's ear, making his breath hiccup in his throat. "I don't want to know where you got Romulan ale," he says softly, matter-of-fact. "Thank you. It's very thoughtful. We'll share a glass _when I'm done_." And he somehow -- somehow -- manages to walk away from Jim again.

"No!"

McCoy sets the bottle down on his desk, above the C shift padd, and watches Jim struggle against his bonds for another long moment before returning his attention to the work that needs doing. And wondering when, really, he learned to channel Spock. He's never managed to be this calm in the face of Jim's lust before. The thing is, even now Jim thinks if he can just find the right words and actions he can control what happens next. Being tied up and helpless has done nothing at all to shake his belief that given time he can make anything in the universe obey his wishes.

Nonetheless, he's having trouble getting Jim's images out of his mind, the idea of drawing Jim's erection into his mouth while he's helpless against the divider, savoring the smoky-bitter taste of him, or better still Jim hot and tight around his cock, sweaty skin slippery beneath him and their bodies working together ....

McCoy pinches the bridge of his nose and reminds himself to focus on the dry data in front of him. He's not going to find a resolution in Dr. Karetu's terse notations, but they should clear his head. At least, until Jim figures out his next tactic.

It only takes a few minutes.

Jim grunts, and McCoy risks a quick glance up, then blinks in disbelief. Jim has wrapped his hands around the edge of the divider, gritted his teeth, and is lifting himself off the floor with raw strength.

What the _hell_? He's trying to get at the cord...with what, his teeth? His toes? Unless he's got a phaser or a diamond hacksaw built into his boots, neither's going to do him any good against that material. Jim's arms tremble as his torso rises, his elbows bend and his head brushes the underside of his wrists -- going nowhere. McCoy's eyebrows have hit his hairline -- the display of upper-body strength is impressive.

"Dammit, Jim --" he starts, and then he's laughing. Jim glares, letting himself down awkwardly. "Nothing at all to be done, and you still can't sit quiet for half a tick."

"I _want_ you."

"I am _aware_." He swivels his chair to retrieve a couple of glasses, and pours generous splashes of the forbidden, dangerous liquor into each. "Believe me, I'd much rather be doing you than doing paperwork.

"However, _I_ am going to drink this while I finish up here. _You_ are going to wait. You can talk, if you'd like, and by all means keep getting yourself het up. But I'm not going to touch you again until I'm good and ready. And you ask _nicely._"

With that, he moves the glass he poured for Jim out of his way, puts the bottle away in the desk, and braces himself to take a sip of the ale. He's usually the sort to take a shot in one go, but he only made _that_ mistake with Romulan ale once, back in med school. The sip hits like it always does, like drinking the heart of a star, and McCoy grimaces with pleasure. He sets the glass down and picks the padd up, and has to blink a couple of times to clear his vision. He can feel his pulse pounding in his cock, and the heat on his bare skin isn't all coming from the alcohol.

Jim sighs heavily, and clenches and unclenches his fists, watching Bones hungrily. Still obviously trying to plot a win out of this scenario, he bites at his upper lip, looks up at the cord, down at his feet, back at the door. Finally he looks back at McCoy; over the top of the padd he sees Jim lick his lips before taking a deep breath. What are we up to now, McCoy wonders, Plan F? Plan G?

"Bo-oooones...." he begins, in a soft and velvety croon that gives McCoy chills. "I've been waiting for you all day, Bones. You said I could talk. I want to tell you why."

His hips start rolling slowly again. "I woke up hard," he says. "And I thought about you in the shower while I squeezed and stroked myself." McCoy swallows another tiny sip of pure, brain-spinning fire. "But I didn't come, because I knew I had a present for you, and I was going to see you tonight, and I wanted to wait."

McCoy wipes a hand across his forehead.

"So I was still hard when I got dressed, and I was thinking about your naked body all morning while I was sitting in the chair."

_Damn._

McCoy blinks repeatedly, performs his last cut and paste and sets the stylus aside.

"I was hot for you all day, while I gave orders and signed requisitions," Jim continues, his voice low and throaty. McCoy is trying to keep his ragged breathing silent. He will have to review the whole report in the morning because the words he's staring at have no meaning right now.

He lets Jim think he's still re-reading, but he's dropped a hand beneath the desk and opened his pants, and he strokes himself, listening to Jim talk.

"I watched the stats and the stars on the viewer but all I wanted to do was come down to Sickbay and go down on my knees in front of you. Every minute I got closer to the end of the shift, I got harder, thinking about the taste of your cock on my tongue." Jim is watching him intently now, willing him to look up.

"I went back to my quarters, and I stripped The Captain off so I could come be with you." Jim's voice goes hoarse when McCoy's padd drops onto the table. "And when I got the bottle out of the safe, I was imagining you, in this room, free of rules and regs, standing over me with that reckless look you get when you're drunk, wanting me as much as I want you."

They stare at each other across the vibrating silence.

"Well," McCoy drawls at last, "that's all quite lovely, Jim, really it is."

Jim squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers -- outright whimpers. All his muscles tense again for one explosive moment, and he yanks just once against the cord, growling, like he can't help trying one last time to fight his way out of this.

"But I recall saying I want to be asked _nicely_."

Jim exhales harshly, and his rebellion suddenly collapses, as though a red alert has just been called off. His chin settles down on his chest and he just lets himself hang there. He's never been more beautiful, desperate and disheveled, stretched out taut and waiting. The erection, clearly outlined beneath the black pants, hasn't wavered in the slightest. His bare chest still rises and falls a little too fast, but his eyes are closed now, thick eyelashes lowered.

McCoy leans down to unzip his boots, as silently as he can. He has to steady himself on the desk when he stands and shucks out of his pants. "And pretty as that all was, it wasn't very _nice_, now, was it?"

The brilliant eyes slide half open, and finally McCoy sees what he wants -- raw and guileless need, without any plotting or planning. Jim says, "I want you to make love to me."

McCoy's eyes never leave Jim's face. He picks up the second glass of ale and walks over to stand in front of Jim, just out of reach. He tilts his head, rubs his thumb over his lower lip.

"No, that's not quite it." He moves closer, still not quite near enough for Jim to steal a kiss. He sets the glass down on the cabinet.

Jim pulls toward him, straining skin and muscle to reach him, mouth slack. "_Please_...."

McCoy's hand seizes Jim's hair. He knocks them both into the divider with his kiss, with all the savagery built up over the last hour, tongues wet and heavy and urgent against each other. Jim is practically sucking him in, trying to hold onto him with lips and teeth, making hard little noises in his throat.

"Hang on."

He takes a shallow mouthful of the Romulan ale and clinks the glass back down, then takes Jim's face in both hands and kisses him again.

This time both of them burn in the heart of the star, and Jim bucks against him, pressing their lean bodies tight together. McCoy moans into Jim's mouth, hands sliding down along Jim's sides to his waistband, first to free the hard thrusting cock, and then around to the small of his back, to push the pants down over his ass. Then he's nipping and licking his way down Jim's throat, tasting salt, the liquor roaring inside of him.

Jim's chin is up, his head leaned helplessly back against the post, biceps twitching with the urge to touch and hold. "Oh, please, please, please....." he repeats, spine arching as McCoy's tongue presses hard against his nipple. Intoxicated more by the words than the ale, McCoy pulls the sensitive nub lightly between his teeth and feels the flesh contract and harden. He straightens up to press their bodies together again, devouring Jim's mouth and wanting for more hands to grope and seize and pin and probe.

When he can hardly breathe anymore he scratches fingernails down Jim's chest and belly as he drops heavily to his knees. He leans in and sets his lips on the inside of Jim's thigh, just at the crease of his knee. This first kiss is gentle, the next, continuing upward, is less so. His hands slide around to cup Jim's ass, and he squeezes, fingers tickling at the base of Jim's coccyx. About halfway up Jim's inner thigh, at a spot he knows is particularly sensitive, he bites down, sucking, leaving a mark that will last a while.

While Jim's still shaking from the sensation, a half-strangled sound dying in the back of his throat, McCoy leans in and strokes his tongue up the underside of Jim's erection. The skin is silky and slick, and he grabs hold of the base of the cock with thumb and fingers as it jumps under his touch. Jim's mouth is gaping open, breath rasping in his throat, completely abandoned to sensation. The teasing has already gone on too long. McCoy wets his lips and kisses the head, then pushes forward, letting his lips drag over the oh so soft glans, letting Jim feel tight resistance as he's pulled into McCoy's wet mouth in one quick sweep.

"_Ohh_, Bones, please, yes, please....." he gasps helplessly.

Hearing Jim beg is like hearing lightning crack -- it floods McCoy with energy and power as his tongue and cheeks create a hard suction, wanting to absorb Jim into himself. He wraps one arm tight around Jim's thigh, and with the other hand keeps a constricting grip on the prick up near Jim's body, but it's not going to slow him down much -- he's already thrusting fast and blind. McCoy feels Jim's balls drawing up tight and then he is coming _hard_, guttural shout echoing off the ceiling, muscles rigid from head-to-toe, flesh pulsing against the roof of McCoy's mouth. Jim moans as McCoy swallows.

McCoy's tongue ravishes the softening underside of the cock, milking the final spurts from him. He shifts his hands to brace Jim's hips, to keep him on his feet -- his wrists have taken enough abuse tonight. McCoy releases Jim's cock, then rests his forehead against Jim's hipbone for a moment, catching his breath, looking down at his own aching erection, thrusting out iron-hard and hungry. He smiles a bit to see Jim's still got his boots on, with pants fallen messily around his ankles. He plants a light kiss against the crease of Jim's thigh and then straightens up to reclaim his slack mouth, pressing them back against the divider once more.

When he's momentarily had his fill of Jim's lips, McCoy glances up at the bond holding Jim's wrists and growls slightly. It only takes him a moment to get the laser scalpel from the desk. Jim's eyes are still spacey and vague when McCoy cuts him down, catching him around the chest. A thin trickle of blood has crept down Jim's forearm. The kid always has to push just a little too far, relying entirely too much on having a doctor and a dermal regenerator at hand. Well, he's going to have to wait, this time; McCoy's got little patience of his own left and the bed's two steps away, behind the divider.

He turns Jim and pushes him roughly, and he stumbles elbows first onto the bed. Jim rolls over onto his back as McCoy approaches, eyes a little wide, but that daring grin is back, washed over with post-orgasmic bliss. It takes him about three seconds to snag lube off the bedside table, grab feet, unzip boots, and strip Jim's pants off. He's not gentle about it.

"Reckless enough for you?" he asks, squeezing lube sloppily onto himself and spreading it with a fast, palming stroke. He stretches out over Jim on the bed, hooking one of Jim's legs up, cock nudging at Jim's ass.

"Oh, god yes," Jim pants, expecting an immediate thrust, but McCoy whispers, "Say it again."

"_Pleeeease, _Bones."

"Not that."

"Wha....M-make love to me?"

"Nor that either."

"Goddammit Bones, fuck me!"

McCoy chuckles, low in his throat, and gives Jim what he's begging for.


End file.
